


House of Spades

by glayish



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Mental Instability, Parent/Child Incest, Prisoner Loki, Pseudo-Incest, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:02:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glayish/pseuds/glayish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words written on the first pages of any story are always a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Spades

**Author's Note:**

> ARGH I started writing this RIGHT AFTER seeing Thor the Dark World last year and it’s kinda a re-write except not and it really should be a one shot but I decided to post the first half so that it would spur me to finish the end already because I just keep editing instead of writing the end, as usual.
> 
> Re: the plot - Can't really say much since it's a re-write. But am I twisted for doing this to Thor, Loki, Frigga and Odin? Probably. But the look on Frigga’s face when Malekith called her a witch was a thing of beauty. Such admirable breathtaking deception. Loki was taught well.

“HE’S NOT MY FATHER!”

The rage had flown from his mouth before Loki could think of a better defense.

Frigga looked at him and a poignant longing swelled. Then her mouth curled into the ghost of a smirk.

“Am I not your mother?”

He felt like a child.

For a moment Loki was relieved; the regression of it made him feel decent and good— like he’d been thrown back to innocence, as if innocence were his default— but the relief was short-lived. He did not want the complacency. He didn’t need help or protection or even _love_ , not now when he was _imprisoned_ , and the irony was so absurd Loki nearly laughed.

But the cruel reality of the question hung between he and Frigga, like a dagger poised in mid-air ready to strike. He was forced to confront her or become ashamed.

“You’re not.”

Frigga’s only reply was a mocking silence.

Indignation swelled to fill the void and suddenly Loki was hyper aware of how petty he sounded, how outright _insulting._ Her visits were already rare enough and he gave her no reason to keep doing so. He could not fault her if she never returned. And then—

“Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself.”

Loki admired her precision.

He cast the spectre of his mother away with a heavy hand, feeling the tears stand solemnly in his eyes. When the last of her magic’s golden glow was gone, he slumped.

In the end, he was grateful for the pity because more than anything else, it made him mad.

 

* * *

 

 

Thor watched Sif go.

It had become a trend. He knew she only wished to ease his burden with a kind ear but Thor was not in the habit of putting his troubles onto others. So instead of joining her, he sat remorsefully between a boisterous Volstagg and diligent Hogun as Fandral flourished through another colourful anecdote. Laughter boomed across the tavern.

Thor stayed until he could linger no longer and then eventually left the table to wander outside.

It was brisk. The seasons were shifting again and Thor was struck by how fast time had passed since the destruction and reparation of the Bifröst. He swept a heavy black cowl more securely across his chest and peered above— the clear arm of the sky was wrapped tenderly around Asgard. He spared a moment for the stars and the worlds beyond them where wars and mayhem still raged. Still, the deceptive calm of darkness remained and Thor was beginning to accept the idea that peace was an illusion.

It occurred to him, like a sudden drop in temperature, that the work would never truly be done. Even with the tireless efforts he and his friends made, there was no honest end to the senseless fighting in sight. This uncertainty yawned like the black pitch of the sea at night. Who could say what the waters would be like the next year and the years after that?

In his youth Thor had courted war and yet now he felt reluctant in a way which made him restless. War did nothing but tear people apart.

A few rambunctious children ran across the terrace and Thor felt a telltale warmth blossom against his back.

“What ails the mighty Thor,” A voice asked with a sort of wonderment, as if asking the stars instead of him, “That he would turn down a drink with such a lady as Sif?”

“In this hour I am in no mood to fight _another_ war,” Thor laughed good-naturedly. His solemn mood drifted away. “I would accept your invitation, however,” He smiled, “Mother.”

She joined him at the terrace balustrade and he leaned in close, grinning, but she held up a hand as he did so; her palm flickered with a golden light.

 “Ah,” He let his arm drop. “I often forget that trick.”

“I did not make this one to stick,” Frigga tilted her head and the faint shimmer of magic faded. “Your trust precedes your eyes.” She smirked, “Some things never change.”

Thor nodded— a handy excuse to bow his head. As always, under her deep perception he was vaguely unsettled. Thor felt ashamed and chagrined all at once and held himself more stiffly.

Frigga stepped closer, “What is the matter?”

It seemed his melancholy was plain to see.

Thor knew he could not see Jane Foster again before restoring reason to the chaos which had infected the realms, but even in this stagnant state of acceptance, his heart was torn— in more directions than one.

Frigga turned her gaze towards the street below the terrace where the same children from before were kicking a ball through scattered leaves.

“To trust is not a weakness, Thor... Despite what some might say.”

She was amused. Thor could not fault her for it. Yet it was strange— the way she mimicked real emotions in this form. He looked at his mother. Magic or not, the spectre before him was a reflection of a real person, whose substance rest elsewhere, like a shadow. He knew he should not think of the magic skill as deception but rather a thing of convenience, a surrogate. The people of Midgard constantly used such shortcuts for communication, perhaps more so than speaking face to face. Of course, Thor could understand the concept readily but it made him feel uncomfortable all the same. He did not enjoy having to question what was real.

Frigga’s carefully folded hands upon the balustrade ledge suddenly curled into fists.

“Thor, regarding your brother...”

“Ah.”

He should have known.

Thor slumped his elbows against the ledge beside her, black cowl fluttering around his shoulders. The silence drew between them as the bustle of the nightlife surged. There was a band of raucous men, merry with drink, loudly carolling down the lane. The chorus echoed with exalted spirits and at closer inspection Thor realized it was the Warriors Three. Thor pressed his lips together to staunch his delight. Volstagg was courageously off-key.

“You do not visit.” Frigga said abruptly.          

He could not contain a bloom of panic.

“Maybe I _do_.” Thor shot back and Frigga received the ostentatious tone with such a withering look he was immediately sorry.

“You know I am forbidden to go to him,” Frigga said instead, “That I do so only in this temporary shape, when I am able.”

“Yes.”

That unnamed, restless churning in his gut was obvious now; it was guilt. They were both aware _Thor_ had been given no such constraints.

In fact, Thor was free to visit as he wished. If he wanted. The problem was he didn’t— _want_ to, that was. Of course, he knew he _should._ It had been ages and there was certainly _purpose_ in confronting the brother-sized problem that resided in the dungeons… But Thor did not know how to convey this particular aversion to his mother, especially since he had so many aversions to begin with.

Frigga tried a new approach.

“He asks after you.”

In a manner most vicious, Thor was sure.

He paid more attention than necessary to the rambunctious children. It had rained the previous night and as the ball rolled it collected bits of muck, and as it was kicked dirt would spray. On a particularly vicious strike it bounced into a trough, splashing water in the face of a surprised horse that whinnied at it and butt the abused toy away with its snout. Finally, the ball had had enough and began to glow then rose into the air. The children watched in awe for a moment before the game resumed, little legs kicking and chasing harder and faster than before. Volstagg’s little boy tripped and started crying but his big sister helped him up.

Thor was hit violently by nostalgia. Had it not been just yesterday when he was that young, that carefree? Was he not _still_ just a boy? Had he not been, when he’d almost become king? A boy-king; his birthright to sit on the throne with Asgard as his plaything.

It was only recently, so very recently, he’d been considered as something else.

He let out a breath of frustration. “What would visiting solve?”

Frigga just looked at him.

“Does Loki not have you?” Thor ground out. The frustration welled up and his penchant for drama poured. “Your love is enough to light any expanse of darkness.”

“How poetic,” Frigga’s mouth twisted up at the corner. “You think so highly of me.”

“A side effect of trust,” Thor offered. “Though if I recall, it is you who has professed I am better for having you.”

“In this you are gentle.” Frigga did not smirk as she was wont to do. For she did smirk brilliantly whenever she knew something others knew not, alas, a frequent occurrence. Her head cocked to the side and the night breeze caught a stray lock of hair which curled slowly against her cheek. “Thor... you are a good man. Never lose that nobility. I only ask you think to show that same trust to your brother again.”

“So he may abuse it?”

“No. So he may see you still care.” She paused and, in the space of that breath, a deep yearning spread in Thor’s belly. “You _do_ still care, don’t you?”

Thor said nothing and wondered if his mother’s spectre could actually _feel_ his trepidation.

She was certainly disappointed.

He could tell because of the look; the same she always wore when things had not gone to plan.But that did nothing to change the fact he could not find the words to explain.

How could he ever give voice to those thoughts? It hurt to be parted, yes, but he and Loki hurt each other more when they were together. He understood that now, despite disagreeing with it at first. The facts were difficult to ignore. But he didn’t have time for the pain, not when he had so much to do, to fix. It was easier to be content knowing Loki was safe instead of acknowledging the futility. They would do better to care of each other less.

It did not escape his notice he treated Jane Foster in a manner dangerously alike.

“I do care. Of course, I do, but...” He met Frigga’s gaze and her eyes whispered what Thor knew to be true— that perhaps he needed to be more than just strong. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Thor shook his head and smiled ruefully, “I dare say you love him best.”

“Oh, Thor,” Frigga said softly and held out her hand, palm up. “You’re late.”

Thor was grateful for the escape. His palm hovered just above hers before he cast it through. The apparition disappeared, wrinkling into nothingness from seams of gold light. Thor was left wondering which road to follow— the stars were shining bright but he did not know which way to go.

Everything had changed.

 

* * *

 

 

Shortly after he fell into the darkness between Yggdrasil’s branches, Loki began to see shadows.

It was neither a trick of light nor clever metaphor— that would have been less troublesome.

No, he saw them as real.

It was bizarre. The shadows were always in corners at first; muddled figures floating just out of focus on the periphery as he scrambled up an army. It hadn’t mattered then. Loki was stubborn and fueled by _purpose_ and so, he ignored them. There was no time to scrutinize tricks not of his own making. But the longer it went on, the bolder the dark grew, and the black dots inevitably began to scuttle across his vision like bugs. He was infested. Eventually, the shadows became so bad it occurred to him he could not even tell Chitauri and apparition apart. It was a blatant sign of sickness. He was _infected_ and, like any person with a disease, he needed a purge.

The light of the Tesseract made the shadows stand out in relief before burning everything away.

Loki darted his head to the side to find— Nothing there.

He was alone.

Life in prison was a dull routine. Unlike Loki, the other captives had nothing but the white walls of their cells and the pleasant view of each other to offer comfort. It was interesting at first, watching how they crowed at one another, simultaneously intimidated and enticed by themselves; their combined wretchedness.

In the beginning of the confinement Loki took great pleasure listening to the curses they spat against Odin. It’d filed his rage, smoothed it into something he could own, something he could trust. For once it seemed he could be amongst friends; people the same as he, strangely at home in this house of spades.

Such a shame they did not feel the same.

No one deigned to speak to him. Loki was used to such mistrust, but surely they saw the nobility of him, that he was above them all, and the thought of sharing the same punishment as a god put fear into their hearts. It was also possible Loki was the maddest of them all, but he was optimistic. For whatever reason, it was obvious Loki had become a king even here. He ruled in silence. It was his right; to create benevolent chaos amidst the stir of lost creatures who’d been caught.

He closed his eyes to block out the walls of the cell but the insides of his eyelids flashed vivid red. Loki rolled his head to the side.

Odin kept the lights too bright.

The magic on the window pane flickered. The fabric of the spells always changed, as if the cells wanted to wear something different, and Loki could appreciate that. The protective barrier rewove itself constantly and he would sometimes get caught up in watching, mesmerized, as the gold magic cross stitched its way through the air.

The sudden hush was what alerted him.

The heavy bolted doors of the dungeons clanked and banged open. There was a steady draw and clink of boots against the stone floors. Beyond the barriers the prisoners were quiet.

That was odd; when new inmates were dragged in the dungeons came to life. His subjects— the mangy things— turned into even simpler creatures, baying at the moon and rattling in their cages as though having caught the scent of meat. So the keen silence was unnerving, as if two hundred hunters had all found their game at once.

Loki rolled his eyes. No matter how many ‘friends’ Odin sent, nothing could—

He sat up lightning quick. There was a hot clench in his guts which may or may not have left him breathless. He couldn’t tell; he was gritting his teeth too hard. It was like a spear of adrenaline had ran Loki clean through.

Thor.

Traipsing into the dungeons as if he owned the place.

He was flanked by a single guard. Loki never bothered with dull generic faces before, but now Loki could not help but notice the guard’s unremarkableness as he marched beside Thor. His plainness made Thor appear that much more striking. Loki remembered standing in that very same place himself.

Irritated, the pain in his stomach spiked.

The pair strolled down the aisle between leering inmates. Thor stopped at every other cell, idly observing the prisoners with a wide close-lipped smile. Thor always avoided things he did not want to do with a sort of beguiling friendliness. It made him look witless, inane.

How long had it been— Loki wondered— For Thor to come now, of all times, _after_ all this time...

He nearly smiled.

Only she would dare.

When he was two panes down, Thor paused and gave a thankful nod to the guard. The man retreated, the _clank-clank_ of his boots mixing with the dungeon’s renewed nattering. Loki swung his feet over the side of the bed and touched the smooth floor as Thor came to a stop just at the edge of the cell. A long strand of hair had fallen into his eyes and Thor’s kind smile was gone.

They said nothing.

Loki felt himself lean forward in scrutiny.

Thor was still a perfect sculpt of muscle; his face still draped in waves of gold. He was dressed in full regalia and that proud red cape dusted the ground just as remembered. It was so familiar it was almost _boring_ , but Loki’s gut and mind did not seem to agree. His heart was racing. This was so disagreeable that he immediately felt unwell. Quickly, Loki searched for something different and— there.

There was a wisdom in Thor’s eyes that had never been present before. There was no oafish trust. It was as if when he looked upon Loki he was not just privy to the guise, but inside of it. It was a look of deep understanding even, and— a cramp went through Loki’s stomach. Thor was so magnificently poised Loki was hit by a sudden recognition— that this new Thor was what Loki had always dread— a would-be king.

Thor began to take slow, measured steps around the perimeter and Loki held his gaze until he stood in the more private vestibule on the other side. Prime spot as far as the prison went, really. Loki would have to thank Odin for the corner lot.

Loki realized he was being blatant in his staring but did not care. At one time he would have been disgusted with his own transparency. Being direct was not nearly as fun. He quickly looked away, dragging a finger across the edge of the desk. It was tricky to find room for pretext in cages, but still, Loki was optimistic. He wanted to know for certain.

“Loki,” Thor said and with that _voice_ it was undeniable.

Very suddenly Loki smiled. He knew this not because he was pleased, but because he felt the smile on his face, pinching and tugging harshly at his cheeks.

“So you’ve come to me like this, have you.”

“In the flesh,” Thor answered.

Loki peered back at him, unmoving, eyes forward. His lungs felt like they were the beating wings of an insect, fast and light. He wasn’t worried. He wore stillness like a second skin these days, like a suit of armor. “Like what you see?”

“I’ve seen enough.”

The side of Loki’s nose twitched, his upper lip jumping into the barest hint of a snarl before he caught himself and stilled.

“And what will this solve, I wonder.”

Thor did not reply to that. He just turned on his heel and walked away.

 

* * *

 

 

During the events of a brave skirmish in Alfheim, two things happened.

The First: Sif laid waste to an entire enemy camp.

Sif was not above relishing in the heat of battle. She loved war and she was _good_ at it. All of Asgard’s finest warriors knew this. By Hel, even their _children_ knew this— but the resulting fire burnt everything to the ground, including the meal hall which caused Volstagg to caterwaul relentlessly whilst they waded through the last of the scoundrels. He had been anticipating some sustenance following the scrimmage.

Fandral was convinced Sif meant to take retribution for a mishap which had occurred earlier, in the summer, at the bold scuffle in Nidavellir. He and Hogun had led the fray whilst Sif and Volstagg brought up the rear and apparently there had been a very close call involving a dwarf, a sleeping Chitauri leviathan and a waterfall. Such things made for a great story, but Sif had not been amused.

However, Volstagg’s valiant hunger was short-lived. On closer inspection, they discovered the drinking hall’s cellar remained unscathed. Perhaps two hundred caskets laid ripe for the picking!

There was half that number when Thor found his friends in the aftermath.

He arrived in the south of Alfheim, riding upon the rainbow bands of the Bifröst and calling out a tired thank you to Heimdall as his feet hit the rune-covered dirt. He had been detained with another contingent of the army called into another battle in harsher conditions. He’d been loath to split from his comrades, but it appeared everything had been handled. What enemies who still lived under Sif’s butchery were chained and lumped together into a mighty pile in the middle of the charred camp. He paid the vagrants little mind; he could hear the cheers of victory.

Thor pulled the thick tarp from the entranceway and the wall of raucous sound hit him squarely in the chest. He was instantly warmed. He spotted Hogun and Volstagg holding Fandral’s head underneath the mead tap.

“Thor!” Fandral gargled, hair wet with froth.

“You’re late!” Sif greeted. Her hair was similarly wet and she was grinning brilliantly.

“I know, I know.” Thor laughed as Sif, in a moment of playfulness, caught him around the middle and squeezed.

Thor shed his cloak and dusted clumps of snow from the fur wrapped snuggly around his shoulders. The hall was packed and the heat was akin to steam— thick and humid. He could feel the frost on the tips of his ears melting and yet the chill from the previous realm still lingered in his toes.

But that was the way of Jotunheim; it had the kind of cold that got inside you.

“Come on then,” Volstagg bellowed happily. “We’ll get the colour back in your face!”

The Second of what happened? They got rip-roaring drunk.

 

* * *

 

 

When the light of the Bifröst signalled they had made their ancestors more than proud, Sif and the Warriors Three led the contingent back to Asgard on wobbly legs.

Thor arrived breathlessly at the citadel, eager to announce the peace renewed— only to find the AllFather and the Einherjar, marching in from an unscheduled sojourn. The halls of the palace were quiet and their every step echoed as they filed towards the armoury. The _clank-clank_ of their boots against the marble floors drowned out any rowdy shouts from the new prisoners down in the courtyard as Thor’s delegation headed towards the dungeons.

Thor caught an old warrior he knew as Sigmarr by the shoulder as he passed. “Was there another siege? Is all well?”

“No battles. The AllFather attended diplomatic matters, my liege.”

“Where?”

Sigmarr’s eyes shifted under his heavy brow and helmet and he turned to leave, “I am sorry, my liege, I cannot say.”

It made little sense.

Thor looked down. His palm was covered in pitch black soot. He frowned, running the fine dust between his fingers. He sniffed, but the dust had no telltale smell of smoke or char. The spicy sharp scent fire left behind was not there. Not soot.

Dirt?

Thor caught up with his father as the return party disassembled. He found the old man shucking off his gauntlets with craggy yet dextrous fingers. The heavy bits of metal and leather landed haphazardly into a washing basket held aloft by a young boy, a page, who seemed nervous he would not be able to catch all the armor at once.

“Where were you?” Thor blurted.

Odin stopped and stared. That one eye embedded in its craggy socket sat unnervingly still, blank. It was immediately sobering.

“What business have you questioning me?” Odin replied.

“I meant no offense,” Thor said quickly, silently dismayed by his own rudeness.

But Odin let out a short bark of laughter, ignoring the slight, and dispensed with the rest of his gear to the jumpy looking page. Thor smiled at the young boy in reassurance and the tinny _twang_ of armor held in shaky arms stopped as the boy tentatively smiled back.

Odin turned then, in just his breeches, and that one eye seemed to gleam, “You are uncharacteristically curious.”

Thor felt himself flush. In truth, he had been more than a little curious, but only because his father had become an uncharacteristic curiosity.

More recently, it seemed Odin was restless. He was not on the throne as much as he ought to be— instead, Thor found him in odd places; the sword school, the stables, the vault. Once, Thor had even walked into the library to find Odin terrorizing the scribes and messengers. He nearly chuckled at the memory. His father could be a downright villain sometimes, but that was what made Odin a great king. He was fearsome— even as he pulled on a comfortable copper and gold embroidered robe.

Odin turned on his heel and Thor trailed after like a fish on a hook as they walked briskly down the corridor.

“I only thought another conflict had emerged on the ground.” Thor said.

“And that I had beaten you to the fore,” Odin smirked over his shoulder. The golden patch atop his eye socket shone mischievously.

Thor grinned at this. “I would not mind in the least. It is by your lead I follow.”

“I’m impressed,” Odin replied. He sounded amused. “I remember there was nary a day you could wait to storm into the fray to prove yourself.”

The humility always blindsided Thor when it hit him. “And nary a day goes by in which I do not think of my thoughtlessness.”

Odin paused in his stride, turned so he could look Thor in the eye, and smiled.

Odin was like a sunset.

Thor had thought so ever since childhood. It had been Frigga who had painted the picture: The AllFather, grand and powerful, sitting on his throne. All of Asgard required the inexorable might of its king— it was the way of things— king after king after king, the cycle of leaders like a buffing motion to keep the world shining gold.

As he and his brother buffed their arms against the metal base of the throne’s dais, she’d explained;

 _“To sit on the throne is to become akin to the sun. It is important to the way of things, for without, there would be no morning. Without, we would be cold.”_ She placed a hand upon Loki’s back.

 _“But sometimes the sun’s too bright and hurts,”_ Thor complained.

 _“It’s because he looks directly into it, mother,”_ Loki tattled and Thor glared.

 _“How many times have I told you to stop doing that, Thor?”_ Frigga admonished and carded her hand through his hair. _“The sun hurts sometimes.”_

 _“Yeah,”_ Thor replied obstinately.

_“And yet its presence is necessary.”_

_“Yes,”_ Thor agreed, though perplexed by this truth. He hadn’t truly understood until much, much later.

He’d realized the AllFather was beautiful in moments like those, in moments of necessity— even if they hurt. Odin was glorious like a blazing sunset, until the day was done and you were left in the cold.

Maybe that was why Thor had found comfort in being amongst the stars.

Thor noticed they were nearly upon his father’s study when Odin said shrewdly, “You’ve to meet with Heimdall, I assume. Same as every night.”

“I do.” Thor agreed, “He says the convergence is a thing of great beauty. That he can see all the nine realms at once.”

Odin’s shoulders tightened as he said, “And yet that is not the beauty you seek.”

Thor felt chagrined. He did not mean to frustrate his father over the favour he held for Jane Foster— he did not mean to upset _anyone_ — but it could not be helped. The changes spun into his life’s tapestry would never have happened if not for the ruined coronation and subsequent banishment, yet Thor hesitated to place blame. What did it matter, to have regard for a mortal? He could not stamp out the small source of warmth, especially now, when Thor practiced such an ascetic style of life. It did not hurt anyone except perhaps himself.

Possibly Thor thought these things too loudly, for Odin hunched further and stopped, resting a hand against the golden archway of the study. The intricate etchings glittered under his palm in the low light.

“You are still foolish,” Odin said under his breath and the white whiskers bracketing his lips curled. It was a brief smile, but it was very different than the one that had come before.

Thor was emboldened by a rush to prove himself, the very same feeling he continuously quashed down. He’d _changed._ He wasn’t ignorant— And briefly Thor thought he should tell father— about mother, about Loki, about the unhealthy bonds that ran through their house like veins. Perhaps then Odin would not be so quick to cut them down, if he saw how entwined his blood was with theirs.

“You disapprove.” Thor said instead.

“Whether I do or do not bears any judgement on simple fact, you waste time on a heartbeat.”

That... stung.

Thor steeled himself in preparation for the futile argument he did not wish to have. He thought of what could sway the AllFather’s mind. For years the bond they shared with Frigga had become a proxy between them, a balm. He used it.

“And what does Mother have, if not a heartbeat—”

“A weak effort, Thor.” His father’s scorn was palpable. “None have mastered sorcery better and yet her most powerful tricks have little to do with magic. She is a _god_. Incomparable to humans!” Odin turned his back on him then, and pressed the heavy door open with one, portentous push. “You would do well to remember this.”

Thor remained in the hallway as the door slammed closed.

They were gods, yes, but they were not immortal. Thor sighed and turned on his heel, silently thinking Odin should have known this more than anyone. No matter what you were, god or human or monster—

Eventually, one day, you would die.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a _clank._

Loki was more than a little annoyed when his stomach lurched.

It was the sound of Thor grabbing the latch of the meal drawer.

There was no luxury of a dining hall in the deepest level of the prison dungeons, only a simple system of a one-way hatch located on the outside of every cell. The metal tracks of the drawers produced a mighty screech when opened and it made his guts clench unpleasantly. It was a learned response; Loki’s tongue thickening in his mouth at the sound was herald to unappetising food.

It was the only door to the outside world.

Mother sent books and trinkets and on the rare occasion, desserts. They arrived the same way, through the drawer. In reality, it was a fine line he skirted between disgust and hunger. Of course, Frigga never delivered the gifts _personally;_ such sentiment would be against the AllFather’s wishes. Instead, the random comforts arrived with the same unremarkable guard, pulling open the drawer. Loki could think of no one else who would spoil him in such a manner, so it must have been her.

He never asked.

It was the way of things to remain stoic in unexpected moments and thus Loki never acknowledged the offerings with more than a nod.

_Schreeeeeech!_

Thor dropped something inside the drawer. It landed with a _clunk_ , rattling around as he slid the blasted thing closed.

Loki clenched his teeth. There was a telltale pang in his gut and he was suddenly quite starving. It was fortunate he was lying down or he might have done something about it. He didn’t want to _seem_ hungry. In fact, a bowl of grapes sat on his end table, but it was only for show. The real fruit had arrived weeks ago and, once finished, he’d spelled the bare twigs to look fresh and whole again. He never ate them. He'd squashed the lot with his foot, pretending each one was the AllFather’s good eye.

He let his head loll to the side and said, dully, but in the spirit of things, “Ooooh. What is it?”

Thor just looked at him with that distinctive tilt to the head. Thor always did that, right before he got what he wanted. Loki’s stomach turned.

“Are we going to do some scrying now?” He sat up. “Have you brought me a crystal ball?”

Still, Thor said nothing but he did frown as he walked past the window pane. The magic barrier rewove itself and Thor was obscured from vision as the gold strands purl stitched across the air, but Loki knew he was there. He knew Thor would not leave this time, not before Loki had taken the bait from the drawer.

Loki crooned, “You _are_ a sight for sore eyes.”

The corners of Thor’s mouth turned up.

“As are you.”

Loki bowed his head in thanks and let a wave of dark hair curtain his face as he smiled.

“Let me guess,” He declared, playing along, “That infernal gatekeeper has grown weary of your obsession. Now you turn to me for help so you may continue to spy on your precious human— _Jane_.” Loki wanted to spit, so vile the name tasted. He grimaced, _“Pathetic.”_

“I have not come here foolish enough to ask your help.” Thor said.

Loki raised his brow in ridicule.

“I do not spy,” Thor replied, put out. He was on the other side of the chamber, in the vestibule, and the low overhang cast his face into shadows.

 “No,” Loki said thoughtfully, though there was nothing to think about. Thor would not spy. He was too simple, too direct. He’d believe in the good of intent— that whatever he was doing was out of protection; out of love. This was the simplest form of deception.

It was a weakness to an otherwise overwhelmingly powerful thing. Love.

He scoffed.

There were other weaknesses around here in the dungeons, anyway, and Loki knew the palace grounds well.

The centre stairs were for show, just like his grapes, as many things in Asgard were. They led to the dungeon courtyard, where there were quaint gallows—seldom used— and target boards— well used— and the dirt lot where the guards walked (and taunted) the prisoners when bored. Useless.

On the other hand, the narrow twisting staircase on the left of the main hallway opened up into the sidings of the citadel. There were horse posts along the walls by the upper door and this was the cause of its weakness; it smelled. Horribly. But one only had to slog through the muck of the troughs for perhaps twenty body’s lengths then take cover behind the wall of saddle racks and bridle hooks to remain unscathed.

The first viable entrance into the citadel’s heart, if Loki’s memory served correctly, was a broken archway from an unfinished construction project— When Thor’s coronation had been nearer upon them and yet they had been no closer to adulthood, Thor abruptly decided he wanted a private moat and gondola so he would have no need of a horse. He’d dug out close to two boat lengths of the courtyard before realizing the utter gall of it and stood, muddied and put out as the rain poured and the horses drank out of his pitiful trench.

Loki’s help had been essential to all of this, naturally. Location was everything.

It was with a pang of something like nostalgia Loki conceded the hole had most likely been fixed. But there was a page’s entrance a bit further on. It would take nary a blink to re-enter the palace, if Loki were ever let out.

He did not leave the bed nor spare Thor a glance, but he flicked his wrist so that the drawer slammed open and the object flew with great speed. The thing fit in the palm of his hand.

It was an amulet.

He eyed it up and down. The base was silver and etched with runes so plain they were almost childish. The metal split off into twin vines which twisted around the root of a deep purple stone— an amethyst amulet.

It was a common trinket. The purple quartz was prized as a powerful healing medium in the many realms it grew; its properties ranging from balancing one’s energy, to organizing chaotic thoughts and, most amusedly, shielding against drunkenness. Walking the streets of Asgard in the early morn, it was not unusual to see stumbling hung-over fools clutching similar charms hoping to sober up.

He turned it over.                                                                                              

The stone end was cut lengthwise to form a faceted column and it tapered off into a single crystal tip; beautiful in its simplicity, but utterly pointless.

Loki spun atop the mattress of his bed, tucking his bare feet underneath himself. He stared at Thor through the knitting gold weaves of the window pane. The magic moved almost lazily today, it was like trying to look through the constant waver of a mirage. The side of his mouth curled.

“I dare say this is even less interesting than the books.”

“It is not much, I realize, but you could use the added support,” Thor said abstractedly. He had turned to observe the pile of hard-covered books in the corner of Loki’s cell.

The collection was real, but only because mother was much stronger at conjuring frivolous things like these— she could make things whole, whereas _his_ brand of magic had become rooted in obfuscation.

Loki could make a book appear as a book, but only the first few pages were ever filled with text. The moment someone tried to read past the beginning they would realize the falsehood. He assumed it was because he was aware of the truth— that the words written on the first pages of any story were always a lie. What came next didn’t matter when everyone knew how it would end.

“Loki,” Thor broke the silence and Loki realized his stomach was doing flip flops. His heart was racing. He looked down and realized the amulet was slicked with the sweat from his palm.

“What do you think will happen to you?”

The question shocked him.

Loki felt circled, as though he were a predator caught with meat between his teeth. But he had no tools in this prison nor prey; he was trapped and the whole charade was infuriating and terrifying and completely _undeserved._ What would happen? He didn’t know. He _didn’t know._

The rage flared to life. He had the sudden desire to stoke its flames and do nothing else. He needed the heat of it, yet the mutiny his mind threw was magnificent. His guts clenched and unclenched, he felt cold, and a tremor of disgust wracked through his body. More than anything, Loki wanted to flee into himself, drop back against the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

He did so.

Thor fell out of sight.

His breathing slowed.

“I am a king.” Loki announced. “I will have the throne one way or another. Or go mad.” He vaguely wondered if he already was. He shrugged and tossed the amulet into the air only to catch it with one hand. “Perhaps I’ll even rot away in this very cell and leave a magnificent corpse. I’ve still purpose yet.”

“It will not come to that,” Thor said from somewhere to the side. The amulet went up and down.

“Death has its uses,” Loki smiled grimly.

“There is still hope—”

“Leave.”                         

Loki’s voice had gone devoid of emotion, as though suddenly evaporated. His fingers were curled tight into a fist he held outstretched in midair. He didn’t dare breathe. He couldn’t, anyway. To control the reaction was beyond him. He wanted everything to stop.

There was no answer.

When he was sure Thor had gone, Loki put the amulet in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

 

Thor was washing.

The contingent had returned from Nornheim, covered in the smell of smoke and a thick coating of ash. It had been a raid— They’d found a clutch of Chitauri terrorizing the place, tearing apart the countryside as if in search for a new crevice to borough in. Then the volcano erupted and everything went to Hel.

Thor scooped more water from the basin to splash against his face. He felt covered in the grime of a hundred worlds and wiping roughly at the back of his neck did not seem to dissolve the feeling. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

The fragrant air from the gardens was wafting in through the open window. He liked these chambers best during the fall. In the early morning, the dying trees sent their sweet aroma like the perfume of a lover and in the evening there was a spiciness that lingered, a scent he equated with childhood, running through the maze of paisley leaves after dusk and laughing—

He gathered another scoop of water and splashed himself quickly. It was cool and refreshing and a few vines of escaping water curled along his forearms towards his elbows where it dripped off to wet the pants at his knees.

“There you are.”

Thor jumped and got a nose full of water.

“Mother!”

Frigga stood in the alcove, smiling. “May I come in?”

He snorted, wiping his face, “Of course.”

Thor stood and Frigga went to him, lifting a delicate handkerchief from her pocket.

“Here.” She dotted the side of his nose and Thor was sure his ears had gone red in sudden embarrassment. He laughed it off and carefully curled a hand around her wrist.

“Ah,” He laughed in merriment as he held her hand easily, “It’s you.”

Frigga smirked.

“In the flesh.”

“It is good to see you.”

The crooked little smile she wore melted into something more indulgent. “And I, you. It has been quiet.”

“Is that so?” Thor grinned.

Then he immediately picked Frigga up to swing her around.

Her resulting laughter filled the room. He spun once, twice and Thor bit his bottom lip as the shine of the dawning sunrise from the distance caught her hair. Frigga shouted his name on the third rotation and he relented. As her feet touched the ground, Thor caught her around the middle and they shared an embrace. He breathed her scent in and his arms tightened.

Frigga slapped him on the chest.

“Stop,” She chuckled, waving a warning finger. “Do not try that again.”

Thor held up his hands and made the most wretched face of defeat. He counted it a victory when Frigga grinned.

“Where is father?” Thor asked as he reached for a tunic, quickly changing the topic. He did not want to seem like a simple little boy who needed his mother. “He expressed a desire to join us in the vanguard.”

“Your father is not well, Thor.” The happiness fell from his mother’s voice like a shadow from a passing cloud blocking the warmth of the sun. It was jarring. “Surely you must know that.”

“Aye.”

He did.

In the beginning, when the Bifröst lay in ruins and the realms surged against its rough edges like a dark sea, Odin gathered up an army. He did so with a grim smile on his face, delegating warriors towards all corners, plotting out an impenetrable defense. There was a charm to his knowledge of war. Where Thor had once courted the bloodshed showing little thought or tact, Odin approached without fanfare. He donned armor and strode where monsters tread to put Gungnir down their throats.

The vehemence did not last long.

The strain was greater. Odin’s weakness had started the moment Thor was sent after the Tesseract.

It was now Thor who wove between leading three Aesir contingents. Not once had they faltered and he would not allow such misfortune come to pass under his control. He was tired and yet restless, but most of all he was _proud_. In truth, he felt more purpose than ever before— wading through the carnage and cracking skulls with his hammer, fighting to protect, to save instead of recklessly destroy— it gave Thor a heady sort of satisfaction, more than he’d ever achieved from peace.

Fighting in the name of peace— it was treading a fine line, yet Thor found balance there. He was never more certain that was where he wanted to be.

But the wars were almost won.

He tried not to ponder what would come next.

“You will become king soon.” Frigga whispered, leaning against the windowsill. Her precision was, as ever, deadly.

Thor’s heart sank as he sat upon the bed and mopped at his wet hair with a dry cloth. He immediately became withdrawn. It was a reaction he could not help, but to try and deny it would have been futile. He knew his mood was obvious to someone as perceptive as his mother.

“Is that what you see for me?”

He dared her to say something contrary. He needed it somehow— to be told there was something else, that he had a choice, even if he could not take it. There would be some solace, he believed, in knowing he had another life, somewhere, out there in the universe. But in reality, Thor had become hyper aware of his unpreparedness and the irony did not escape him. For he and Frigga had been preparing for quite some time.

The inevitable yawned like a cruel reminder of eternal sleep.

Odin was sick.

Frigga stayed silent. She rarely discussed her powers of premonition. Finally, she moved away from the window and said, “What I have seen is of no consequence.”

He slumped.

“I know what must be done. Why continue to council me?”

Frigga raised one eyebrow.

“Because I am your mother.”

That stung.

“I have something for you.” She reached into her pockets, yet Thor remained silent, brooding. Frigga touched his shoulder and he looked down. In her palm was... Thor was nearly overwhelmed.

It was an amulet.

He carefully took the trinket, turning it over in his hand. When he was a child, his chambers had been decorated with many similar artifacts. Frigga believed in their powers of clarity and grounding. It was important, she’d said, to have an anchor before casting out into the wide open sea; something to use when you were in danger of getting lost. A means to stop.

He smoothed a callused thumb across the flat of one facet. The purple quartz was cloudy so he could not see his reflection. This suggested he was ailing from something in the mind, but he knew quite clearly the cause.

He did not want kingship.

“Your brother is not well either,” Frigga said. It had been months since she last spoke to him of Loki, yet he knew what she said to be true.

“Have you been to him?” Thor asked carefully. His voice felt thick and heavy, like he was suddenly underwater and opening his mouth seemed ill-advised.

She just looked at him.

A feeling of longing swelled. This was a stalemate.

He dropped the trinket upon the bed furs and stood abruptly.

“I must take my leave. I’ve to meet with the Dwarves.” He reached for his armor. “It is important to accompany the diplomatic parties since I must learn all I can before... while the AllFather is still able.”

“Thor—”

He swung a cape around his shoulders and stepped into some boots. Frigga followed and there was a dark air about her— Thor could tell she resented the blatant aversion. He carried on dressing anyway and crossed the chambers towards the doors.

“Loki needs you.”

He stopped. The words mocked him so unashamedly he felt as though he’d been struck.

“There is time.” Thor finally said.

There wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Loki lamented Thor.

He was not proud of it— but he was _bored_ and so the deploration came naturally.

First, he ran through all the things he hated about Thor. This mental list occupied him for quite some time. In fact, Loki engaged in its construction with an unbridled passion, perhaps using more focus than what would be deemed healthy. He didn’t care. It was preferable. He had to keep his mind busy lest the silence become overwhelming.

Thor had not returned.

Loki was certain it was because he’d been too brusque with Thor, but could he really be blamed? He was locked up, wrongly punished— made to _while away_ eternity whilst _Thor_ got to gallivant through the realms! Whatever patience Loki might have retained was now gone and, truthfully, it took a great deal of patience to deal with Thor since Loki hated him so _much._

He added ‘always late’ to the list.

Logically, it must have been Thor on the frontlines. Loki knew what a weak old fool Odin was; it would be the sensible thing to do, to send Thor and his band of friends out there to fight. _They_ were the ones who were realms away, the ones who shipped home the vermin to be shoved into cages around him. Loki knew this because it had been himself who’d left the trails of red in the first place— only Thor was stupid enough to try and wipe them out. The evidence was there and Loki knew all this to be real, yet still he felt entitled. He expected Thor to appear despite the truth, as if on whim.

But what need would Thor have of him? _Loki_ was the one subject to whim and fancy. He could do nothing from this dungeon, nothing except wait. Loki felt unravelled. He was a dark point standing amidst the bright lights and his eyes hurt. Spots danced across his vision like the flurry of particles from a soul forge, forming inversed constellations on the backs of his eyelids. He let out a long breath he’d unknowingly been holding.

Perhaps his appeal was gone.

Abruptly, Loki looked up from the book resting on his knees and smoothed back a lock of hair which had gone lank against his brow. In fact he was quite unkempt, hair the longest it’d ever been tangling into natural curls he’d use to tame. His skin was dry and pallid, the knuckles on his fingers and toes knobby. He briefly thought of conjuring an illusion, but what would be the point of trying to fool himself?

He wanted to see Thor’s face and hate him in person. He _needed_ the reminder and yet loathed it simultaneously, for he knew looking upon Thor would displace the hate with something more vulgar… _That_ was the last thing he needed. In fact, Loki could not even bear to think of it, least of all give it a name!

He flung the book from his lap and it crashed into the magic barrier with a violent shock.

Thor was just... He may be arrogant and irresponsible and _late_ but Loki could not deny Thor was nobler than any other and powerful beyond words. He could protect the nine realms from any threat, it mattered not how many fires burned, how many matches Loki himself might have struck. Thor could do it _all at once_ , if he really wanted. Even with all his flaws, it was no exaggeration. He had friends and family who loved him, who _helped_ him, and Thor was not afraid of accepting their good will. Loki knew all this to be true— that if any calamity came to pass, Thor would stop it. He knew this so well there was no reason for doubt.

Thor was just _good._

Loki hated _that_ most of all.

It occurred to him then, not for the first time, that Thor could have become an excellent king— if Thor had been _made_ to be a king. But he wasn’t. _He wasn’t._

You had to be at your worst to receive glory! Loki had seen this first-hand. The throne unmade and rebuilt in its image. You had to be ready to bleed for the sake of power. You had to kill and destroy, give everything up. You had to hurt the ones you loved so there was nothing that could hurt you. The throne _ruined._ It was a contract, a symbiote. There could only be the kingship. There could be nothing else.

Loki saw this as plain as could be.

But he also saw shadows, so there was that.

He sighed and the discarded book came back to him in perfect condition once more. He read through the first pages before it bored him. The passage of time was unclear, but Loki had amassed a pile of half-finished books which sat stacked by his knee when the voice finally came like a red-hot blade and cut through his thoughts—

“Have you kept the amulet on your person?”

Loki had the urge to laugh but his throat was dry and unused. He was unsure of how long it had been since he last spoke so he acknowledged the sensation but did nothing more than turn to the next page of his book. Appearances were everything. Looking at the page was strange— he couldn’t register the words. His mind was blank but he stared down as if he were reading something anyway and with a hoarse voice, replied:

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Thor was there, standing just at the corner of the window pane, outside the cell’s golden stitch of spells. Thor’s hair was partly pulled back in a braid. It seemed longer this way. In fact, there was more fleshiness to him— armor light, scale mail and red cape magicked away to show bare arms and neck. It was more personal and Loki could not deny he appreciated the visual.

Loki stretched. He’d sat in the same position for who knows how long and the floor was hard. His knees creaked as he straightened his legs and kicked out a foot to roll his toes. He stood slowly, made a show of limbering up. He was content to drag this out. He would not care even if Thor paced or broke out into a jig or a bit of song (which he was known to do on particularly dreary sojourns).

At the moment Thor did not look to be in a gaming mood—that made things more fun.

“Show me.” Thor said.

“How _vain_ ,” Loki lazily popped his neck, “How presumptuous, that I would keep your useless, misguided gifts.”

“Show me,” Was all Thor said.

“No.” Loki leered. He could feel himself doing it, even though he’d had no inclination to do so before. It was the sight of Thor’s face which instigated the leer. The very image of him set something spinning in the pit of Loki’s gut. There was a sensation in his belly, so warm it almost burned. He felt stirred, like emptiness brought to life, like bits of nothing in a funnel of wind, clumping together to form a chimera. Loki smiled to himself, lifted his arms as he spun slowly on the spot.

“Check for yourself.”

Thor said nothing.

A spike of ire shot through Loki’s chest and killed his playful mood.

In a flash he’d knocked over a pile of books, relishing in the clatter. He deliberately pushed the chamber’s lone chair into the table, hard, so that it dragged its heavy weight with a _screech_ against the floor. An apple rolled off the edge. He sauntered across the chamber over to the bed and flopped down backwards, the cushion making a large— _pouf!_ — as he landed on it. He then let an arm glide languidly across his face to block out the light. The cool dry texture of his sleeve felt good against his eyelids.

After a few moments, he could hear the soft _thuds_ as Thor paced.

Loki knew he would not leave.

“Why do you stand outside my cage as though I can hurt you?” Loki taunted. His legs were hanging off the end of the bed and he swung them with a little petulance.

Thor snorted derisively, “Please.”

“Begging, are we?” Loki said, cheerful.

Thor’s only reply was a thunderous huff.

Loki let his cheek rest against the mattress and he caught Thor watching. The spinning in his gut intensified. He felt hot all of a sudden, like steam was rising just under his collar. That was odd. The feeling struck Loki, held him down with its weight. It was almost foreign. He could not remember the last time something had roused his interest.

Not since Thor’s coronation, surely.

The realization came with a bit of a surprise.

He remembered that particular moment quite clearly; the knowledge of what was to befall Thor had set Loki’s pulse on fire. There had been a heady rush at Thor’s trepidation, the subsequent comfort and validation Loki got whenever Thor sought _Loki_ and Loki alone. He’d held complete control over Thor’s emotions in that moment; could have steered his brother in any direction he wished— yet he’d chosen to love Thor with a prevailing earnestness which mystified even Loki himself, all whilst he knew the truth of what would occur. He’d acted as if nothing was wrong.

The day he let the Frost Giants in.

It wasn’t so much the act of betrayal but the fact that it had been a _beautiful_ deception. The utter duality was _evocative_. He’d been terribly aroused by it, until things had gone belly up and it all fell apart, of course.

He could not remember any other similar moment to come after, so it was with a sense of wonder Loki let the reaction creep up, from toes to chest, to even the tips of his ears. He swallowed and his eyes widened in wild recognition— his veins were throbbing. His brain buzzed. His skin prickled. He didn’t know what to do first.

It seemed like an amazing idea just then— to slide into a dramatic pose on the bed, knees wide apart, hips cocked. He propped his chin up on a fist and announced, with deliberate insinuation, “You can come inside, if you like.”

Thor stared.

Loki did not care for the silence that stretched and deliberately caressed the mattress with his foot, humming. He then made a show of brushing a wave of hair from his neck— Thor had a thing for necks— then winked.

“Are you... are you mad?” Thor finally asked. His eyes were sharp but there was disbelief in his voice, as if he’d forgotten all the times Loki had said much worse.

The bark of laughter fled Loki’s mouth without warning.

Ah, well. Of course this _new_ Thor would not welcome such incestuous vulgarity. But Loki found he did not have the heart to stop the farce just to spare someone’s feelings. Where was the entertainment in that? He always enjoyed discovering just how far he could go teasing Thor. The reaction was worth the trouble.

“Have you kept the amulet on your person?” Thor asked again.

Loki could not resist.

“Oh, yes,” He breathed and let out a snicker. “Right...” He slid a hand down his abdomen, into the crease between his pelvis and thigh, “Here.”

He was burning up. He was on fire. His mouth was parched but his tongue was thick and wet and he— he reached into his pants. It was lewd, it really was. But for some reason he did not care. He needed the bit of fun. He wanted to drag this out. He’d wanted to see Thor for _ages_ and it had steadily put some strangeness into him, like a constant drip of poison finally beginning to sear.

Loki knew what Thor wanted was peace of mind. Thor wanted to know his baby brother thought about him and kept his gifts close. It was the basest sentiment. Thor needed to know that he still had some bond with Loki, even though it was Loki who ultimately held the reigns. It was senseless and romanticized but it was true, it was _true_ , and Loki did not want to give Thor the satisfaction of conceding, except he _did_. Want to, that is. He wanted to but he didn’t. Even his thoughts were two-faced. He shouldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be, but still the thought was nice— Naughty. It brought a smile to his lips and his fingers closed around, closed around, closed around—

The pit of his stomach gave way.

Loki stilled in shock.

The pants pocket was empty.

Loki pulled his hand out and stared at the bare palm as if he expected it to be burnt, as if he expected it to be blue, as if—

There was nothing.

He blinked, dumbfounded, and looked up at Thor who was standing at the side of the cell near the meal drawer. It opened with a great screeching lurch. The good buzz in Loki’s skin immediately vanished and his gut began doing summersaults.

An item clunked down. The drawer closed and the object rattled.

Loki felt as though he stood on the precipice of a yawning cavern and then, swiftly, it ate him whole. Emptiness swallowing emptiness.

He did not want to know what it was.

Thor stared at him.

Loki swallowed and quickly scratched at the side of his neck with his empty useless hand. He was sweating. He wanted to catch himself around the throat, for his tongue had filled his whole mouth and it was almost like he couldn’t breathe. Loki waited there, sitting on the bed for an inordinate amount of time— he had so much of it now— until his muscles unfroze and the sensation of pins and needles swarmed across his legs.

By the time he’d registered he should say something, anything, Thor was gone.

He got up and shuffled in his slippers to the siding and opened the drawer by hand.

It was the amethyst amulet.

 

* * *

 

 

Loki was pacing.

He was prowling. He was in constant motion, the gears in his mind whirling and whirling and whirling and he couldn’t _stop._

The amulet sat upon the meagre table, just in front of a shining bowl of fake fruit. He glared at it, concentrating on its details until his head hurt and the lights got too bright and he had to shut his eyes to keep the black shadowy dots from swatting at his face.

He wanted to smash something.

It was the same amulet as before.

Exactly the same. He’d _checked._ After a fashion. It took a few days before he’d bothered to take it out of the drawer. Not that Loki was _afraid_ or something ridiculous like that— it was only the smart thing to do.

First, he’d eaten. He ate every meal which came through the drawer. He did so _only in pretense_ because he needed to see if the guards would remove the amulet… but it was always there when they left. He ate for a few more days after that, to see if whatever magic that had spurned the blasted thing would dispel.

It didn’t.

He ripped apart the cell, second. No sign of the original. It would have been foolish to believe the amulet was a copy. The details were as they were the day Thor arrived; same base, same childish runes, same stone of same cut. He knew because he’d kept it on his person, despite the utter sickening romance of it, the downright _disgust_. He’d kept it. Mused. Lamented. Despised. It had never left his pocket and then suddenly, it wasn’t there.

Somehow he’d been tricked.

He smashed the fruit bowl. Just slapped his hand straight down on it and shattered the pottery so it became a wreath of golden shards, fanned out from his bloody palm. The illusion of grapes disappeared.

Was all this Thor’s doing?

No.

It wouldn’t do for Loki to get confused by sentiment, for that was the best disguise of all.

The messenger mattered not— it was the amulet’s purpose he needed to know.

Mother’s books held nothing. He’d flipped through them in a furious search. They were his only source to the outside world and they were as useless as before. He ran through what he knew of amethyst for long hours at a time but the information swirled around in his mind, as if he were drunk, or maybe dreaming.

Did not the purple quartz signify piety? The stone supposedly gave off an energy that urged you to do good, do right— Loki could understand why one would think it an appropriate gift.  He nearly laughed at the irony, but the feeling passed. That was all he could remember.

In truth, some days he found he could not remember a great many simple things. It was as if his mind had clouded, congealed. Loki ignored this.

He wanted to smash something else.

He didn’t.

Thor would come. He knew this for certain. Thor was something of a keystone, the apex from which Loki arched. Thor would return. It was the way of things, always had been, always would. They might argue, they might fight, but inevitably Thor would try like a fool to _save_ Loki— it was an ending already written. The only one they had.

Mother had said so, once.

The futility he felt was bottomless. How would that ending ever be _real_ unless he made sure of it himself?

 

* * *

 

 

With a fresh set of prisoners dangling on the tail rays of a rainbow, Thor returned home.

“Welcome back,” Heimdall greeted and Thor went to clap a warm hand against his arm.

“What do you think?” Volstagg chortled, tugging on the line of connected prisoners with one hand. “How shall we make use of these ne’er-do-wells? They’re not as ugly as the last lot. Perhaps we could string them up in the courtyard’s tree.”

“Nonsense, that would be far too heavy. Just their heads will do.” Fandral guffawed at the cowering prisoners and received an elbow in the ribs from Hogun for his efforts.

“Come now,” Sif rolled her eyes. “To the dungeons they go. Same as the rest.”

Thor listened, disinterested as he mounted a horse. Guards scrounged up the miscreants; all manner of persons made up the troupe— tall, short, brawny, and boney. Old and young. Their only common denominator was that they were covered in dirt and blood.

Thor watched the prisoners be dragged away in their chains towards a future of imprisonment and a deep sense of guilt panged. Frigga’s words were at the forefront of his mind.

 _“You_ do _still care, don’t you?”_

The memory sent anxiety spinning to fill his chest and a flush came to his cheeks.

The rush of the Bifröst was always invigorating, Thor told himself. That’s why his pulse had sped up. He twirled Mjölnir restlessly.

He had the sudden urge to go along to the dungeons. Perhaps he could check in, make sure things were alright. A leader did that, did he not? Thor would even inspect the deepest of chambers, to perhaps—he quickly derailed that train of thought. The more he thought it over the more the task seemed a chore than an honourable plight.

“You seem troubled,” Heimdall said and Thor blinked. He’d been in a daze. They were alone in the Bifröst’s observatory, the universe stretching its arms wide around them. The contingent had gone ahead and he could see the lot, just past the arched gateway beyond the bridge.

“Heimdall…” Thor replied in resignation, “What place is there in this world, where the ground is black as pitch but has no scent of fire?” He turned to look into Heimdall’s golden all-seeing eyes. “A place the King of Asgard may go.”

Heimdall inhaled. “I am sworn to loyalty to my King, the _current_ King, although I anticipate the future be fast upon us.”

Thor smiled briefly but pressed on, “And what of past Kings?”

“Ah, your grandfather, Bor.” Heimdall smiled tiredly, “Well that is another matter entirely. Dirt as black as pitch, you say?”

They shared a knowing silence.

“Svartalfheim.” Thor said.

“The dark world.” Heimdall agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

Thor appeared later that night.

Fortunately by this point Loki had journeyed beyond the initial phase of stress. In truth, all that restless pacing and glaring and seething had made him frazzled. It was with a sense of relief he’d finally come to right of mind, smoothed his hair back into place, straightened his garments and returned the amulet to the drawer.

He was calm with the amethyst out of sight— collected— it was so _soothing_ , in fact, that he found himself floating in and out of a sort of meditative trance. Loki knew he was thinking, deeply, but of what was uncertain. He didn’t care.

He felt better.

He was caught up in a similar reverie when, suddenly, there was the rhythmic _clang-clang-clang_ of guards dressed in bright shining gold, traipsing into the dungeons.

The entire place smelt ripe.

Loki had long since become accustomed to the odour of fresh prisoners, but oversaturation was inevitable; the stench had intensified.

The dungeons were now so crowded the cells were crammed full. He wouldn’t be surprised if the weave of magics were bulging against their seams to hold everything in. It wasn’t so bad. None dared to encroach on Loki’s space. Still, every now and then there was a plume of pungency in the air, as though someone extra rotten had been dragged in.

Personally, Loki found it amusing. It was all just more proof— there were still agents of chaos rising against Odin. It was vile triumph burning its way up nostrils; a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.

Eventually the new inmates settled and the ruckus died. They hissed quietly in the shared cells, pressed up against each other like bits of trash with nowhere to go. The pointlessness of it was stifling: the air felt like it was growing thick, a gradual slow suffocation. Loki was at the bottom end of an hourglass filling up.

He was sitting at the table, staring out blankly, when Thor arrived.

Thor’s steps faltered as he walked into Loki’s baleful line of sight. Only for a moment, of course, but Loki noticed. He was not pleased. The visit did not fill Loki with any satisfaction. He felt _something_ , yes, a small thrill maybe. A sudden breath of fresh air as though the hourglass had reset. But the fleeting thrill was much like a match struck in the middle of a storm— it blazed, hot and painful for an instant, then immediately went out. No lingering smoke left to even leave a trail. Gone.

Thor cocked his head and the light from the corridor’s walls illuminated his face in eerie blocky segments. He had dirt smeared on the high point of his brow. The smudge brought upon some recognition , to days of yore, as if Thor had been out at the training yards and carelessly swiped at some sweat before it slide into his eyes— eyes which looked somewhat worried—as Thor _should_ be.

Loki was dangerous, a _killer_. He was a weapon always pointed at the heart.

“Tell me how you did it.” Loki’s throat hurt but his voice sounded silky to his own ears. He was completely composed.

“Did what?” Thor replied.

Loki momentarily saw red. He stood, slowly, deliberately, hands clasping behind his back. He walked towards the window pane and Thor mirrored the action. They were standing close in the alcove, Thor’s face dark from the shadow Loki cast in the severe light of the cell. A golden stitch appeared between them then, knitting together a long glowing line in the air, like a scar.

Loki nearly dispensed with the farce altogether, but then: Thor smiled. Innocent and without a clue.

Damn.

Loki clenched his teeth and looked away, one hand jiggling in agitation. The futility was there in his gut, worse than ever, yawning hopelessly wide. Not for the first time he wished for a copy of himself, a way to stretch his mind in a way his body could not. Be someone else for a while. Only then could he purge the chaos of his brain and breathe easier once more.

Suddenly, he needed to touch Thor.

He needed to make sure this was not a figment of his imagination. That Thor was real. Loki wanted to breathe Thor in and taste the stench of battle deep in the back of his throat.

“Can you not enter?” Loki asked.

His throat ached but the question sounded smooth. He _needed_ to be smooth, needed to talk Thor into this. He leaned in a sophisticated, inviting manner.

Thor ignored him, turning to frown and squint at some unknown foe off in the corner. The silence swelled until it felt uncomfortably bloated, pressing deep into Loki’s ears and making them pop. It was for this reason, when Thor finally spoke, he sounded very far away.

“Do you intend to carry on as before— with that sick little display?”

Loki smiled, “If you ask nicely.”

Thor snorted, his mouth going lopsided.

Neither of them offered a yes or no.

Loki looked at him fondly, hating himself for doing so and yet not truly concerned by the flaw. It was so _impractical_ — this duel of love and hatred for Thor— yet it was a duel he could not do without. Unfortunately, his interest was insatiable. He was, perhaps, a little obsessed. Loki _understood_ this on a superficial level but could not bring himself to make it matter. This was one secret he wore wide open. Even after countless times of posing this question to mother, Loki found he still wanted to know.

Did Thor ask after him?

Did Thor think or speak of Loki whilst he was out there, in the free world? Loki’s hope persisted even as the line of his thoughts derailed. Did Thor realize the magnitude of Loki’s darkness, and did he feel crushed by it? Lured by it? _Guilty_?

Oh, Loki wanted very much for Thor to be strung through guilt! By _far_ the most effective motive of the bunch. It made such _animals_ of people; scrabbling around in the dust, chasing their own tails all while forgetting who’d pointed them in that direction. Guilt could make its subjects kneel on their own accord.

Although Loki _did_ prefer a hands-on approach when it came to Thor.

Manipulation just wasn’t manipulation without some kind of leash.

The mental image amused him. For a moment, anyway, before it warped into something ugly— the vivid memory of standing before Odin, wrapped in chains.

He sneered.

Some people said freedom was a gift. Others said it had to be earned. Loki only wondered, earned from _whom?_

From whom.

 _He_ was not the _same_ as the unruly pests of the universe who craved subjugation! He had been born into freedom and yet it was his own family who dared to take it away.

Loki did nothing to stop the cresting of anger within his heart.

No, this was just a setback, a simple storm to weather. He would stage a coup, somehow. By the stars, there was no other alternative— he’d win. He had to. He needed to. There was nothing else.

When he next caught Thor’s gaze, Loki made sure his eyes were wet.

“Thor,” He simpered, wondering vaguely if trembling his bottom lip would be too much too fast.

“Is that what you want?” Thor ignored this meticulous detail anyway and mused aloud, “Neither books, nor comfort and conversation. Instead, you wish me do your bidding.”

“Oh, yes,” Loki teetered forwards, clutching at the hem of his tunic, “Please.”

“Surely you mean to use me for escape.”

With a single blink the glassiness in Loki’s eyes was gone. He paused and then said, unable to contain the grin, “Are you volunteering?”

In reply, Thor smiled and his head tilted to the side _just so_.

Loki could feel himself returning the gesture and quickly turned away. He idly drew a line through the dust on the table. He inspected the fingertip— spotless. “There is a way, is there not?”

“To break you out?” Thor’s eyebrow rose, “Or for me, to lock myself in there... with you?”

“Both.”

Thor did not seem very convinced of Loki’s magnanimous attitude, but he moved closer anyway, “Still ambitious, I see.”

It was common, Loki found, for people to experience an ‘inner calm.’ Many a time had he heard this state of serenity compared to a peaceful pool— where disturbances like anger and joy created ripples on one’s surface and things such as love and betrayal ran deep like currents in the emotional fluid which filled a person up. He imagined dead dark waters pushed up against the back of his throat and dreaded being drowned.

It was very fortunate Loki felt no such fullness.

He was, in fact, adamant he did not feel much of anything. As a boy he’d told this to mother over and over again. Frigga would not concede to his reasoning. She would press a kiss to his head and instead murmur her counterpoints which were, in hindsight, not _terrible_... as far as arguments went. They’d come to a sort of compromise. Loki was not a pool of calm water, but a deep wondrous hallow world. And when he was disturbed, he _resonated_ with it, loud and vain as though shouting into an abyss.

There was a similar stirring inside him now; a voice sounding far away. He couldn’t quite understand its words, but he was compelled by a sense of urgency nonetheless. Perhaps he _was_ a little desperate.

Once more couldn’t hurt.

“Please.”

He dabbled in a little lip trembling for a moment, drawing a circle on the tabletop. When he looked back at the window pane, Thor was watching him, from inside the cell.

“How did you—” Loki bit his lip to stifle the shock.

The magic stitches of the cell behind Thor were shining bright, coating him with a golden aura for a brief instant. It was dazzling and Loki marvelled at the sight before realizing the dancing in his eyes were merely the spotty swarm of shadows coming to life.

Thor shrugged.

“Tch,” Loki sneered.

Prevarication was not in Thor’s nature but Loki did not waste time caring. He was too busy blinking furiously. He threatened the black dots assaulting him with the very dangerous swath of his eyelashes. It worked, somewhat. He shook his head, once. It was inconvenient, but the infestation would depart soon enough.

“Are you well?” Thor looked concerned; the dirt smudge on his brow was creased.

Loki bared his teeth, “Locked up in here, how could I be?”

Thor scowled. “Were you better off _before_ the incarceration I might actually believe you.”

Loki growled and turned on his heel, stalking in a tight angry circle. He was suddenly cross and drowsy, like an animal which had been tranquilized. He shook his head, twice, to dislodge the miscreant shadows from his brain. This was the opposite of what he’d wanted, this immediate loss of control. Obviously he could not be near Thor, let alone touch him!

He lurched close anyway.

“You _are_ ill,” Thor concluded warily.

“Why don’t you kiss it better,” Loki heard himself say. His voice was but a whisper and yet it seemed as though he were screaming. By the stars, he could not hide this fire even as it shed light on his black and deep desires! He ought to forget about Thor altogether instead of inviting such blatantly bad ideas right into his lap. He felt confused. Exposed. _Cursed!_

Thor stepped backwards, alarmed. “You are not yourself.”

“Hypocrite. As if _you_ —” Loki caught himself, feet rooted to the ground. He was... He couldn’t— _Fuck!_

“Loki,” He heard Thor say through the echoes of curses going through his head.

The shadows lashed out at Loki’s face and he sat with a thud against the bed mattress.

“Let me pretend.” He said, harsh, and pounded the meats of his palms into his eye sockets. He couldn’t help the way his fists clenched. The way his nails dug into his brow. He couldn’t help a lot of things these days, being left alone to his thoughts.

“Is that what you want?” Loki heard.

He blinked, outraged Thor was still there. He trusted nothing. Not even this.

The next thing Thor said was whispered: “Close your eyes.”

He did.

Loki finally saw complete darkness behind his eyelids.

Sitting in Thor’s shadow sent the cell’s brightness away. He wanted to _hate_ Thor the most for this but hadn’t expected being eclipsed would bring such… relief. He felt a gentle hand sweep across his brow, as if checking for a temperature. He fought the urge to scowl and jerk away, reminded himself that he _had_ wanted this— that he wanted the touch, an anchor to keep him from spinning, if just for a moment.

A ghostly kiss was placed gently against his forehead. His temple. A thumb pressed softly against his cheek. Even with his eyes closed, Loki could barely feel it.

What was the point of _anything_ if he couldn’t _feel_ it?

His chest was hot, like a fever creeping up. Then… there it was. That telltale buzzing in the bottom of his stomach; a fluttery excitement. _This_ was what he’d wanted. He turned his head and gripped the long hair by Thor’s neck. It was longer than before. Much longer than before.

Loki was not gentle. His fingers curled into the wavy strands and he felt his nose collide with a high cheekbone as he pulled Thor down by the hair and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

Thor froze.

Predictably.

Excited by the possibility of a rough tumble for control, Loki cupped Thor behind the ear and tilted his head, sliding his firm lips across Thor’s soft ones. Loki reared back for an instant before he kissed Thor again, quickly letting his jaw go slack, his lips warming the little indent under Thor’s nose. There was an intake of breath.

Thor did not reciprocate.

The heat that had begun to stir in Loki’s gut fizzled away.

“Let me pretend,” Loki said the same words as before, eyes still squeezed shut. It came out much more like a request than a command this time. He ignored the shaved skin of Thor’s chin, the smoothness of his lips. He just wanted the touch, he didn’t want to know anything else. He was in need of an illusion, a bit of delusion, escape. He _wasn’t_ sick, just a little unwell, and things would get better sooner if he got his way.

A thumb grazed across his cheekbone like a paintbrush.

“You can’t.”

Loki pushed Thor away and wrenched his head to the side. He would not face the betrayal. He didn’t need _this._ He wanted to be alone. The breath was pouring out of him as though he’d exhausted himself in battle and his stomach flipped summersaults. He was panting and a fine spray of spittle coated his lips. He licked them and they felt dry and throbbing. He focused on the clutch of his fingers in the bedding, the way his knuckles were burned white, bloodless.

“Loki,” He heard.

He scrunched his eyelids tight, willing every single one of the shadows to go away.

By the time he chanced opening his eyes, Thor was gone.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
